


A Good Slave

by wargoddess



Series: The OTHER Other Hawke [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/F, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Masturbation, Realistic discussion of slavery, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Orana's so quiet and meek that you'd hardly notice her, but no one who survived slavery in Minrathous could be as simple as she seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Slave

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The One You Feed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/450321) by [tanukiham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham). 



> This is a response fic to Tanukiham's excellent series "The Other Hawke", which is itself a sort of alternate canon to Dragon Age 2 (centered on Carver Hawke rather than Garrett). In TOH, Orana is found in the slaver caverns as per the game, but then is taken to the Chantry by Sebastian. Sebastian later places her with Fenris as a paid servant in hopes that a fellow ex-slave can help her acclimate to freedom. This story takes place mostly during the second fic of the series, "The One You Feed", and probably won't make a ton of sense unless you've read these fics first. Many thanks to Tanukiham for a great (ongoing at this time) read, and all inconsistencies with her work are purely my error. I was dazzled by teh awesum. 
> 
> Also, the game's depiction of slavery irks me. In the real world slaves are neither stupid nor emotionally stunted; they know full well that they've drawn a shit hand, and they know the dangers they face better than anyone else. I can buy that a slave might *pretend* to be simple in order to protect herself (or himself, in Fenris' case), but I don't buy canon!Orana. So this is my attempt to fix her.

     Orana does not want things for herself.  That was something her father taught her when she was very small, because that is the way a slave survives in Minrathous.  Slaves in other places may _want_ , he told her, long ago and before Magister Hadriana slit him from neck to crotch.  In those places slaves might even feel anger and hatred, and their rebellions might succeed on occasion.  But those places are not ruled by mind-reading demons and half-possessed blood mages.

     She's not in Minrathous anymore, and she's not a slave.  Brother Sebastian has explained this.  Fenris is not her master either, both men say, and Fenris gives her money to prove it.  It proves nothing, but one does not contradict one's master, even when he says the impossible.

#

     Orana is very glad, the first time the young templar comes to visit and she realizes what he is to Master Fenris. 

     That is because Orana especially does not want elven children.  It's still a danger, of course, so she does what she can to prepare herself just in case.  Quietly. Master Fenris has given her money and told her to buy what she wants, but she does not tell him what is in the tea she drinks every night.  He talks to Brother Sebastian, who is of the Chantry, and the Chantry does not like it when women do things to prevent pregnancy.  Orana does want children; she just wants her children to be human, because elves are small and weak and easily broken.

     Perhaps Master Fenris would understand -- for has he not endured torment to make himself as strong as any human?  Has he not chosen a male lover?  He never looks at her that way, even though she lives in his house and is so much weaker.  She's lucky to have such a kind master.

     Or perhaps he is simply satisfied enough with his templar that he feels no need to look at Orana that way.  She does what she can, therefore, to ensure that Master Fenris remains satisfied.

     The laundry, for example:  she does it quickly, even spending her own money to buy new towels, so that Master Fenris will always have clean cloths and fresh clothing ready after his lovemaking sessions with Ser Carver.  She notes the signs of an impending visit -- Master Fenris grows palpably restless whenever Ser Carver is due -- and so she buys more of his favorite soaps if he's running low, makes sure he has plenty of chamomile on hand for his hair.  When Ser Carver arrives, she serves meals that consist of small items which titillate the senses:  sour fruits and sweet creams, drippy things that invite licking off, salty cheeses to offset the copious amount of wine she knows both men will drink, water to stave off hangover.  While she can hear them together, because Ser Carver makes noises that echo through the whole house, she readies a basin of water and leaves it near the household pump as if she just happened to draw it and hasn't gotten around to using it yet.  Straight from the pump, it's icy cold.  When Ser Carver's cries hit a particular pleading, ragged note, she adds water from the kettle heating on the stove until it's lukewarm, just comfortable enough that neither man will notice and think she's been listening to them.  Even though she has. Now they can clean up in comfort and grow closer.

     Orana listens when she's outside, too, though Kirkwall is still terrifying for her.  It's cleaner and smaller than Minrathous, but nothing in the city makes sense.  The mages are not to be called magisters even though some are wealthy and powerful, like Ser Carver's brother.  The elves are not to be thought of as slaves, and yet most of them still perform slaves' roles and have no hope of escaping.  (She prefers Minrathous, because there no one hesitates to name a thing for what it is.)

     So she is in the market, by chance near enough to overhear, on the day that an elven prostitute speaks to Master Fenris.  There's no need for her to intervene, she decides at the look of disgust on Master Fenris' face.  She does not need to knock something off a vendor's display case and apologize loudly, or feign a twisted ankle, so that Master Fenris will notice her and not do something that will risk his relationship with Ser Carver.  But she hears what the prostitute says, and sees how the words strike her master like blows, and belatedly she realizes that damage has been done anyway.

     That is unacceptable.  So once Master Fenris walks away, his face blank and shoulders so stiff that for the first time Orana sees what he must have been like as a slave, she goes over to the prostitute.  He is sprawled on the bench, looking after Master Fenris with something like sorrow in his eyes, and he does not see Orana until she looms over him.

     "He's better than us both," she says, low and tightly, when he starts and finally notices her _right there_.  She can say this because he is a slave, he will always be a slave, he is exactly the same as her, and no one cares what slaves say to other slaves.  "You can't make him _less_ no matter how you try, so don't ever speak to him again."

     He doesn't reply, eyes going wide and wondering and a little alarmed.  She walks away quickly so he won't notice her shaking, and so that she will indulge in no more terrible, traitorous selfishness.  _That was for Master Fenris_ , she tells herself afterward, as she unclenches her fists and smooths her hair and walks back to the house with her head down as usual.  But that is a lie.

#

     Orana is alone in the house when war breaks out in Kirkwall.

     Master Fenris is out somewhere.  Her room is small and windowless -- much like her room back in Magister Hadriana's house -- but she feels the mansion shudder with the first explosion.  When she trots to the foyer and peers outside, she sees big red-painted Qunari moving at the end of the street.  Immediately she shuts the door again, runs through the house to blow out every candle and lantern, and then heads downstairs to hide.

     This war does not surprise her.  She's been listening, after all, and the tension in the city has been a thing of ground glass, ready to tear and flense at a moment's notice.  She knows that the oxmen up north are barely held in check by Tevinter's best efforts, so it was only a matter of time until they moved to conquer this tiny city that keeps its best magical weapons locked away in a prison.

     Her father taught her well:  a good slave is always prepared.  She knows that with the lights out, the mansion looks truly derelict; there is a degree of protection in that.  She hides in the wine cellar, in a hole in the wall that she has carefully enlarged over the past few weeks, then concealed with a rack of empty bottles.  Even after the worst of the noise dies down, she keeps hiding -- and sure enough, after awhile there is a thud upstairs, and the shuffle of feet on creaking floorboards as people come into the house.  Looters, maybe.  There isn't much for them to take, just some food and broken bits of junk she's kept around the house in hopes of repairing.  There are better spoils to be had in other Hightown houses, many of which are unguarded right now.  The thieves leave quickly after one of them stage-whispers that he's heard the master of the house can rip a man's heart out with one hand.

     Orana comes upstairs only when the sounds on the street have faded to distant screams and shatterings.  The thieves didn't break any windows, and even her little jar of savings is still unmolested behind one of the weathered paintings in the foyer.  She cleans up quickly so that Fenris will not know his privacy has been violated.

     The next day she edges out to buy replacement food.  On the way she stops and talks to the neighbors' servants, who are on the street helping to clean up.  One of them, a red-haired human woman who stands as tall and proud as Orana does only in her dreams, tells her that the Qunari have been driven off by no less than Ser Carver's brother, who has revealed himself publicly as a mage of great power.  This does not surprise Orana at all.  She has seen that one from a distance, and _kept_ her distance, because a slave is always a slave and a magister is always a magister, no matter what anyone says and no matter how he tries to hide it.

     As Orana ponders this, the red-haired woman asks, "What's your name, sweetheart?  I've seen you about, of course, but -- "  She glances toward the dilapidated mansion and smiles a bit.  "Well, we're not supposed to _know_ anyone's living in that place, if you know what I mean.  But I'm new in town, fresh off the boat from Redcliffe in Ferelden, and I thought... well."  The woman blushes, inexplicably.  "It might be nice to get to know you, was all I thought."

     Her smile is warm and kind and just a little shy.  And this unnerves Orana all of a sudden, because Master Fenris has warned her that their Hightown neighbors do not like him living there.  Is the woman's question innocent curiosity, or part of some plot against him?  In Minrathous, smiles did not always mean kindness.

     "I -- I have to go."  Orana stammers the words quickly, and bows and hurries off even as the red-haired woman calls after her in surprise.

     It worries her, that the neighbors might be watching.  It worries her also that Ser Carver will face extra scrutiny now that he is a famous mage's brother.  It worries her most of all that Magister Hawke will have more power, because she knows that Magister Hawke does not approve of his brother's lover.  She's not sure how to keep this from interfering with Master Fenris' life, but she knows better than to remain unprepared. 

     Steeling herself, she walks all the way to Lowtown and speaks to a merchant in the alienage whom others have told her about.  He has a hard, solemn face, but he is kinder than he looks.  She explains what she needs and he gives it to her, asking no questions, turning aside the money that she offers.  Elves have to look out for each other, he says, and there's not much market value for magebane in this city, anyway.  Now if Master Fenris should ever require it, and if the opportunity presents itself, she will be ready.  A good slave anticipates her master's every need.

#

     There is a shuffle behind her, and Orana does not think of possible danger as she turns from making dinner.  A moment later she finds the butcher knife knocked out of her hand and across the room.

     "Oh, my," laughs the woman who did this.  Orana has never seen her before, but she knows at once that this is Isabela, because both her master and Ser Carver have spoken of her.  And if half the things they've said are true, then Orana knows she is very lucky only to have lost her knife.  "Sorry about that.  Bit of a hair trigger!  You understand."

     "It is no trouble, mistress," Orana says, bowing quickly so that this woman, who is tall and strong and brown and so beautiful that Orana's teeth ache, will be appeased.  But before Orana can edge away and reclaim her knife, the woman ducks and grabs it, then tosses and catches it with an easy skill that probably didn't come from chopping vegetables.  She doesn't give it back to Orana.

     "So you're Fenris' maidservant, are you?  So strange to think of him being waited on hand and foot.  Although -- "  She looks away and imagines something, all the while still tossing and catching the knife. " -- I have to admit, I would _love_ to be in your position.  Listening at the door while they grunt and grind at each other...  Bringing them tea just after they've finished, while they're still _steaming_ in the cold air..."  Isabela sighs, and it sounds like a purr.  "You must see some truly delightful things as you go about your duties here."

     Orana blushes, even though just a few mornings ago she did exactly as Serrah Isabela so luridly suggests, slipping into Master Fenris' bedroom to claim his and Carver's discarded clothing.  It was laundry day.  And although she'd tiptoed as quietly as she could, Master Fenris' eyes had opened, pinning her where she stood.  He hadn't seemed alarmed as he lay draped over Ser Carver, even though both men were nude and the room smelled thickly of sweat and sex and scented oil.  She'd been unable to keep herself from staring, in fact, because something in his gaze almost seemed to invite it.  She'd known high-class body-slaves back in Minrathous:  perfumed, languid creatures who served the magisters' every whim, because no one else could afford them.  Master Fenris -- smooth and lithe and striking even for elvenkind -- could have put any of those prizes to shame.  But then he'd sat up, propping his arms on Carver's very broad chest, and that had drawn her eyes down.  Carver was asleep, of course, his face turned artlessly away, one pale muscled leg bared so that Orana could see the long strong line of his body.  And in that moment Orana had seen him as Fenris did:  a shining, wholesome thing untainted by ownership or cruelty or the kind of despair that came of a life lived without hope.  More beautiful than either of them. Then Fenris had nodded to her and laid his head back down with an air of pure possessive pride, and Orana -- inexplicably ashamed -- had backed out of the room.

     It would be wrong to speak of such things.

     "I've seen nothing like that, mistress," she says to Isabela, and Isabela sighs in disappointment.

     "Oh, well.  I suppose it was too much to hope for." Isabela hands her back the knife, hilt-first, with a little flourish and bow that sets Orana blushing all over again.  This makes Isabela's eyes gleam in a new way, and she steps closer, reaching up to cup Orana's cheek with a very warm hand that is all over scarred with little knife-nicks, most old and a few new.  Orana freezes, unsure of what to do or think or feel.

     "You're a pretty little thing," Isabela murmurs, thoughtfully.  "Bit thin, but I imagine Fenris will fatten you up.  Were you a compatriot of his, back in Tevinter?"

     "No, mistress.  I served in Magister Hadriana's household, not that of Magister Danarius.  I never met Mast -- "  She grimaces at her own forgetfulness.  " -- _Serrah_ Fenris before Kirkwall."

     "Oh.  But you were a slave like him, I mean."

     A slave does not contradict a citizen.  "Yes, mistress, I was a slave."  _I am a slave.  I will always be a slave._   "But I am happy to serve M -- Serrah Fenris now."

     Isabela is scowling suddenly, which makes Orana's belly tighten in anxiety.  "Right, lovely.  So how do you serve _yourself_?"

     "...Mistress?"

     "Well, I mean really."  Isabela steps away then, gesturing melodramatically at the cracked walls from which Orana has scrubbed the mildew and mushrooms, and the loose tiles on the floor, and the flyspecked windows.  "If Fenris wants to live like this, fine, I suppose he needs this mess for proper brooding or something, but you?  You don't seem the broody type.  What do _you_ get out of living here?"

     The question floors her.  "I..."  Slaves do not want things for themselves.

     "You're a servant, not a slave, remember?  That means you get to please _yourself_ from time to time.  What do you do for fun, hmm?  Knitting?  Cards?"  She grins.  "Don't tell me you just sit around thinking endlessly about _them_.  Maker, if you're going to do that, at least think of them as two beautiful men rutting like rabbits for your amusement."

     This thought is so shocking that Orana can say nothing in response.  Her tongue stills; her mind goes blank.  And then she is ashamed, because... because yes, she _does_ sit around thinking endlessly about her master and his lover and how she can serve them and how she can make them happy and how she can protect them from the world's many threats. Because she's seen those threats.  She knows how hard it must be for Fenris even to attempt such a thing.  And she wants to see them succeed.  That is what a good slave --

     That is what a good slave should --

     -- except she isn't, she isn't, she _isn't_ a good slave.  Good slaves don't get angry and good slaves don't miss their dead loved ones and good slaves don't _feel sorry for their former masters_ because Hadriana had been so terrified even as she washed herself in blood.  Good slaves do not threaten or plot to poison strangers.  Good slaves are not ready to kill to defend the tiny, stable, safe piece of the world that they consider theirs.

     She has done all this for herself.  That is the truth.

     She hates Isabela for making her see it.

     And she hates herself for hating, because hate is selfish, and good slaves do not --

     Good slaves do not --

     Isabela watches her for a long moment, perhaps reading the struggle in Orana's face and body, perhaps just waiting for Orana to reply.  But Orana can say nothing.  She is too surprised, and ashamed, and angry, all at once.

     "Well," Isabela says at last.  "It seems I've upset you.  Sorry.  Here; let me make it up to you."  And before Orana can protest, Isabela steps forward and cups her face between those two knifewise hands, and she leans close and Orana thinks perhaps she should pull away because Master Fenris --

     -- _Serrah_ Fenris, and he would not care --

     -- but she should not anyway and then it is too late because Isabela's mouth brushes hers, lips soft and full and tasting a bit of stale honeymead, and all of a sudden it occurs to Orana that perhaps Fenris was not trying to say _look at how fine my Carver is_ but actually _look what wonders we might have for ourselves if we only try_ , which is strange and wrong because Fenris is a slave too, once a slave always a slave, but she has seen Fenris _want_ his boy, and _want_ cannot be so terrible a thing given that Fenris is a good man and given that right now Orana _wants_ , oh _how_ she wants, she has no idea _what_ she wants but it is so _delicious_ just to want at all --

     -- and then Isabela pulls away, sighing a little in reluctance.

     "Look me up in a few years," she breathes, with a wink.  "I think there's a feisty little thing underneath that lovely meek exterior of yours.  Can't wait to see what you do with yourself when you finally let go.  I think it's going to be grand."

     Then Isabela is gone, out the kitchen's back door and probably up the gutter pipe to try and peep through Fenris' window.

     Orana stares after her.  Eventually she rinses the knife and resumes making dinner.  But she thinks about herself while she does it, the whole time.

#

     They are kind about it, Carver and Master -- Serrah --  _Fenris_ , when they ask her to play the lute for them.  They are kinder still to let her stay and watch while they dance and touch and stare at one another in something that neither would call love, but which really can't be anything else.

     She's already gathering her things when they ask her to go, because she's not stupid and it's obvious that they need each other right now.  And true enough, when she pulls the door to and leans against the wall outside, she hears soft murmurs and clothing shifting and little wet sounds and Carver's first hungry moan.

     She does not think.  Her hand moves to the door, which she has not closed completely.  She pushes it just the tiniest bit further ajar, and keeps most of her body to one side of the door so that her shadow will not darken the gap beneath.

     And she watches them until they are done.

     Afterward she heads downstairs, and just barely gets the basin of water in place and herself out of the kitchen before Carver stumbles in, naked and steaming and shaky, to find the basin.  She watches through a crack in the kitchen door as he tests it with a finger and grimaces.  It's ice-cold.  He takes it anyway and heads back up.

     Orana considers feeling bad about this, then decides not to.

     When she returns to her room and lies down on her small bed, she thinks on what she's seen.  _Rutting like rabbits for your amusement_.  Well, that's wrong.  They weren't doing anything for her.  But she thinks perhaps they will not mind if she takes a little something for herself from their love, since they have so much of it to spare.  As she thinks this, she is a little surprised to find her hands on herself, moving slowly, caressing.  She thinks of Fenris' fingers denting Carver's skin, of Isabela's lush bosom against her own meager one.  Pressing -- ah, yes, yes.  _Yes._   Like that.  Her hands wander down, over her belly.  She thinks of Carver who is so strong and yet so careful, who gazes at Fenris as if Fenris is the only important thing in the whole world, who touches Fenris as if he is something precious.  Down beneath the waistband of her skirt, her fingers work, work, work.  She thinks of poison-vendors whose scowls hide kindness and Chantry brothers whose serenity hides calculation.  She thinks, _I don't want to be like this anymore_.  That makes her think of Fenris laying claim to what _he_ wants, gripping it by the hair, setting his teeth in it, holding it down and pounding it into the mattress and wrapping his legs around it and letting it fill him.  She thinks of _wanting_ just as a thing all its own, and the taste of that is raw and salt on her tongue.

     She takes care to press her face into the pillow to muffle her own small cries.  She is not Isabela.  Just because she has discovered herself, she need not be inconsiderate of others. 

     But a little selfishness -- just a little -- is all right.

#

     The next day as Orana puts out the trash, she sees the red-haired woman from next door doing the same.  The woman lifts a hand and smiles a little, tentatively.  "Hello again, you."

     "Hello," Orana replies.  She smiles back, feeling her face heat, but she presses past her own shyness.  "I'm sorry, I meant to tell you this the last time we met, but...  My name is Orana."


End file.
